If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead and more, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
___________________________
And Leah, still in her beanie and oversized coat, fingers cold but threading perfectly into his, just squeezed back. She didn't need words. The day had spoken plenty. They drove on. Richmond wasn't far. The stars would be out by the time they got home.
The BMW X5 glided up the familiar Richmond drive with a quiet hum, tires crunching lightly over the winter-dusted gravel. The iron gates had already opened for them the moment Francesco's license plate was picked up by the sensors—just one of those little luxuries he rarely thought about anymore, but today it felt kind of funny, almost surreal, rolling up to a place this grand after such a down-to-earth, muddy, grassroots derby afternoon.
Leah sat in the passenger seat, still wearing her beanie and coat, but her posture had relaxed entirely now. One hand rested lazily on the edge of her thigh, the other tapping faintly along to the hum of the heating system. Her eyes flicked up toward the front windows of the house as they pulled in—she'd been here before, sure, but it still struck her sometimes how different Francesco's life could be from the one she led in Borehamwood with her teammates.
He parked the car neatly in the curved driveway, right beside the Honda Civic he used before, and cut the engine.
The engine's purr faded, replaced by the subtle quiet of winter dusk and the final few birds calling it in for the night. The sky above had dipped into a soft, pearly gray-blue, the moon just beginning to rise behind the trees at the far edge of the property. A couple of the outdoor lanterns lining the cobblestone path blinked on with a warm orange glow.
Francesco looked over at her, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Home," he said softly, like he didn't quite believe it either.
Leah exhaled through her nose and smiled, then reached down to unclip her own seatbelt. "God, that heater's making it hard to move now."
"You can stay in the car," he offered with a teasing grin. "I'll bring you a blanket and a medal for services to football excellence."
Leah shoved the door open with mock effort. "Shut up."
They both stepped out into the cold, the slap of January air immediately kissing their cheeks. Francesco walked around to the boot, popped it open, and retrieved Leah's bag before locking the car with a soft beep. He turned, handed her the strap, and then nodded toward the steps leading to the double doors.
But just before they started walking, he slowed, letting the weight of the moment sit between them.
"Oh—and," he said, glancing sideways at her, "you know you're coming to the Emirates tomorrow, right?"
Leah raised an eyebrow as they walked. "Oh, am I?"
"Mm-hmm." He adjusted the strap of his own duffel bag. "Kick-off's at four. Against Newcastle. You've got front-row seats."
Leah shot him a smirk, her boots clicking gently against the stones. "What if I had other plans?"
Francesco blinked at her. "Like what? Napping off your victory lap? You just scored a goal of the season contender. You're in the honeymoon phase of match form."
"Exactly," she said, arching a brow. "I should be recovering. Ice baths. Carbs. Hydration."
"I'll hydrate you," he said, holding the front door open with a flourish. "With a good Chianti."
She walked past him, laughing. "That is not proper athlete nutrition."
"Neither is scoring rockets from twenty-five yards," he said, following her in and closing the door behind them. "And yet here we are."
Inside, the mansion was warm, filled with the soft glow of low-hung Edison bulbs along the hallway arch and the faint hum of the central heating system. The marble foyer gave way to the polished hardwood of the main corridor, and Leah instinctively kicked off her boots near the door before shrugging out of her coat.
Francesco stepped behind her and helped untuck her beanie gently from her hair.
He hung both their coats on the wide wooden rack beside the door. "Seriously though, you're coming tomorrow."
Leah turned to him, eyes soft but teasing. "You just want me there to see if you can outdo me."
"I want you there because you're part of everything now," he said plainly. "But yes, also to see if I can outdo you."
She rolled her eyes, but her hand brushed his briefly as they moved side-by-side through the wide hallway toward the heart of the house—the sprawling open-plan living space that overlooked the darkening garden.
"You know I'll be there," she said after a moment. "Even if I have to wear ten layers and bring a thermos."
Francesco smiled and flicked on the kitchen lights. "Just don't cheer louder for me than I did for you. I need to keep my pride."
"No promises."
They exchanged a look that lingered—a quiet, wordless exchange threaded with the kind of affection that didn't need declarations.
Then Leah kicked off toward the plush sectional couch and flopped down with a dramatic sigh, arms out like she was claiming the entire thing.
Francesco tossed her bag down beside the staircase and made a beeline for the kitchen. "You want tea or something stronger?"
Leah peeked over the couch arm. "Tea first. Then stronger."
He smiled, setting a kettle on the stove.
"Tomorrow, then," she said lazily, stretching. "The Emirates. Four p.m. I'm there."
Francesco glanced over his shoulder, his voice warm and sure. "Wouldn't want to play without you."
Francesco poured the hot water into two ceramic mugs—one Arsenal-red and one soft cream with a tiny lion etched into the side that Leah had jokingly claimed as hers months ago—and stirred in the peppermint tea bags. The smell drifted up gently, the kind of calming scent that eased everything down after the adrenaline of a day like this.
Behind him, he could hear Leah flipping through the channels on the TV with lazy disinterest, still sprawled across the couch like she was making a snow angel in the cushions.
He picked up both mugs and turned around, walking back toward the living area. As he handed her the lion mug, a thought popped into his head, uninvited but immediately permanent.
"Oh—before you completely melt into that sofa," he said with a little grin, "go get your MOTM award. We're taking a photo."
Leah lifted an eyebrow, smirking behind the rim of her mug. "A photo?"
Francesco sipped from his. "A selfie. Us. With the trophy."
She leaned her head against the backrest and groaned playfully. "Fran…"
He shot her a look. "What? You think I'm gonna let today pass without immortalizing it? No way. You killed it."
Leah scrunched her nose, half-laughing, half-resigned. "You're worse than the WSL camera crew."
"I'm more flattering."
"You're definitely more biased."
"Exactly," he said, setting his mug on the coffee table. "Now c'mon. Bring the trophy. I've got a caption in mind and everything."
That made her laugh.
"You're such a social media fiend when you want to be."
"And this moment deserves it."
Leah rolled off the couch with a soft grunt and padded barefoot up the stairs to where she'd dropped her tote. Francesco stood by the window, taking in the view of the twilight garden beyond the glass—a landscape blurred slightly by condensation, the distant branches moving softly with the wind.
She returned a minute later, the black rectangular MOTM trophy in one hand and her tea still in the other.
"Where d'you want to take it?"
Francesco raised a finger, thinking. Then he nodded toward the big standing mirror beside the fireplace—a favorite spot for photos when the light was right. The warm orange glow of the interior lamps still painted the room just enough for a soft, cozy contrast to the trophy's dark gloss.
He stood beside the mirror and reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone.
Leah stepped up beside him, holding the award chest-height.
Francesco grinned and turned the phone screen toward them. "Okay. One normal. Then one silly. Then one with just you and the award."
She gave him a look, deadpan. "I am not sticking my tongue out like I'm fifteen again."
"I never said tongue," he replied innocently. "But now that you mention it…"
She rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling as she leaned in, their shoulders pressing together.
He lifted the phone, positioned the frame just right, and snapped.
Click. One with both of them smiling.
Click. One with Leah holding the award up like a championship belt, Francesco pretending to point at it in mock awe.
Click. One with just her, standing proud, chin tilted slightly up, that effortless calm radiating through the image like it always did when she was in her element.
Francesco lowered the phone, reviewing the shots.
"They're perfect," he murmured, eyes scanning the last one again. "Absolutely perfect."
Leah sipped her tea, voice playful but soft. "You gonna pick one for the 'Gram now?"
He didn't answer right away. He just smiled and tapped the first picture—the one with the two of them standing together, her trophy gleaming in her hand, both of them still in match-day clothes, tired but proud.
Then, with a few practiced flicks of his thumb, he pulled up Instagram, selected the story option, and typed the caption with that same grin still on his lips:
Killing It Today, On The Pitch❤️
He added a little "🔥" next to Leah's name tag, slid the brightness just right, and hit "Post to Story."
Leah leaned in, reading it over his shoulder. "You're such a sap."
"I'm an honest man," he said. "My girl ran North London today."
She nudged him with her shoulder. "It was one game."
"It was the game," he said, slipping the phone back into his pocket and turning to her fully. "And you—you were the best player on the pitch. No debates."
Leah stared at him for a moment, her playful smile dimming into something quieter. More real.
"Thanks," she said. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… full.
Francesco leaned forward and kissed her forehead, his hand settling on the back of her neck. "Now sit down. You've got tea, a sofa with your name on it, and I've got a couple films queued up that don't require us to think."
"Is one of them Love Actually?" she asked as they wandered back toward the couch.
"…Maybe."
She groaned. "You're impossible."
He flopped down next to her. "And you still love me."
She did.
She always would.
The soft glow from the fireplace flickered across the living room as Francesco nestled back into the sofa, Leah snuggled close with her lion-etched mug resting on her knee. The last light of day slipped away outside, leaving them in a bubble of quiet evening comfort. He glanced at his phone—his Instagram story had just turned into a lively little event.
"Hey," he said, tapping at the screen, "check this out."
Leah reached for the phone, and together they scrolled through the responses drifting in:
• Fans celebrating Leah's MOTM: "That goal was 🔥"
• Teammates tagging: "Queen of North London!"
• Even family chimed in: "Proud of you both" and "Dinner on me!"
• A playful reply from Bellerín: "Better make sure she gets medal pizza!"
They both laughed.
"I think it's officially gone viral among the Arsenal Women's squad," Francesco said, eyes crinkling as he read the comments.
Leah shook her head, amusement lighting her features. "You weren't joking about posting it."
He shrugged with mock innocence. "You deserve the spotlight."
She nudged him gently. "Okay, Social King. I can't hide it—I'm happy. Tired, but happy."
He studied her a moment, warmth filling him. Then he tapped the screen shut and set the phone on the coffee table.
"So…" he began, stretching one arm behind him, "speaking of celebrations—what do you fancy for dinner?"
Leah raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "We're still on a dinner theme tonight?"
He grinned, his gaze soft. "Yeah. I want to cook for you. Something easy, but good—as good as you were today."
She shifted to face him fully, chin propped on her hand. "You're sweet. Alright—what are we thinking? Pasta? Curry? Salmon risotto?"
Francesco laughed softly. "Salmon is so last night. How about something different—like your favorite, those Spanish shrimp garlic? And maybe a crisp salad?"
"Mmm…" Leah closed her eyes for a beat. "Yeah. That's perfect."
He smiled. "Shrimp ajillo and salad it is. If you want something else—just say. I can do ratatouille, frittata, cheesy polenta…"
Her smile widened, amused. "You're spoiling me."
"You earned it."
She reached over and squeezed his arm. "I know."
He paused, watching her for a second. "Anything else you'd like? Dessert? Ice cream? A little cake?"
Leah considered. "Chocolate mousse? It's light, but feels like a treat."
"Done." He pointed at her confidently. "Mousse and shrimp. And coffee after."
She laughed. "Ok, top chef, get to it."
He hopped up, arms in the air playfully. "Chef's orders, ma'am."
Leah rested back on the couch, tea warm in her hand, and watched him disappear into the kitchen. She could already smell garlic and olive oil from the next room as he pulled out pans and utensils. Soft music drifted through the house again. She let herself sink into the moment, thinking about everything that had happened: the match, the awards, the photos, the promise of tomorrow's game.
And the night wasn't over yet.
Because for once, this felt like a home—a place built from matches and goals and victories, yes, but also from dinner made together, story replies that made them both smile, and quiet, easy questions like "What do you want to eat tonight?"
The soft hum of the kitchen faded into a warm, homey melody—clinks of silver, low sizzle of garlic butter, and the gentle scrape of a wooden spoon. After what felt like a lifetime of anticipation, Francesco slid the last serving dish onto the dining table and stepped back with a satisfied exhale. The shrimp ajillo glowed in creamy olive oil, brightened by flecks of chili and fresh parsley. Next to it, a crisp mixed salad—peppery arugula, ribbons of carrot, juicy cherry tomatoes—awaited its right moment. A petite glass dish of rich chocolate mousse sat at the center of the table, topped with a single swirl of whipped cream and a sprinkle of cocoa powder.
From the living room, Francesco called out in that gentle voice that still always caught Leah's heart:
"Dinner's ready!"
Moments later, Leah appeared—hair still in that easy, low bun, cheeks flushed from excitement. She paused at the doorway, her phone lifting instinctively as she took in the table's spread, soft lamplight dancing across the dishes.
"It looks amazing," she whispered, rolling her shoulders as though she'd just come in from cold—then, almost on reflex, raised her phone.
A flash of the shrimp and salad, signature twirl of the mousse, then herself framed in contentment—"Been Spoiled By My Charming Boyfriend❤️🔥" she captioned, tagging Francesco's account. With that final tap, the story went live.
Francesco slipped in beside her at the door, his arm around her shoulders as he watched Leah's selfie. "Post it?" he asked more than hoped.
She leaned into him, smiling. "Of course. And you know what?" She flicked her thumb across the screen. "It's on. People are already reacting."
He leaned forward to peer, and within seconds, DMs and comments began to trickle in:
• "Chef Lee strikes again! 🔥"
• "Couple goals!"
• "That mousse looks lethal!"
• "Your place looks like a restaurant—so glowy and cozy."
Leah's cheeks warmed as she slipped the phone from her fingers. "He's going to flood your DMs," she teased.
Francesco grinned. "Let him. It's fine."
He offered her hand, nodding toward the table. "After you, my Queen of the Pitch—and Table."
She closed the night's ritual with a soft laugh and took his hand as he guided her around. They sat, chairs scraping quietly against the hardwood, candles flickering mid-pitch of their long dinner.
They ate slowly—each bite savored like a prize. The shrimp, lightly spiced and garlicky; the salad, crisp with a squeeze of lemon; the mousse, a soft little decadence that coaxed smiles and slow enjoyment.
Between mouthfuls, the conversation unfurled:
Leah: "I scroll fast, but there are already like fifty hearts."
Francesco: "I counted at least a dozen Arsenal Girls accounts within a minute."
Leah: "We're a social media power couple now, huh?"
Francesco (toyingly): "Only if you want to be. I'm just here for the real-life stuff."
She lifted her spoon. "Mmm—this mousse is perfection. Really. You outdid yourself."
He tucked a stray hair behind her ear. "Wanted it to feel different. Like today felt different."
She met his eye, warm and quiet. "It did."
Conversation drifted between playful banter—"Is this his new signature dish?"—and sweet comfort—"This place feels like home." The kind of ease that had been woven over months, made permanent through match days and photo stories, cooking experiments, and late-night tea.
When the plates were empty and crumbs swept away, Francesco poured two small cups of espresso—black, with just a spoonful of sugar. He handed one across the table. Leah accepted it, still holding the connection between her fingers.
He leaned forward, voice soft as steam:
"So… are you kidding or not about coming tomorrow?"
She looked up, eyes framed with sincerity only he could read. "I was kidding about the sugar and thermos—but I'll definitely be there."
He sighed contentedly. "Good."
She tilted her head, teasing. "But you will do dinner like this at the Emirates too, right?"
He chuckled. "Can't make promises about a dining table under the stands… but I'll try to figure something out."
She laughed into her coffee. "That's all I ask."
Dishes were cleared together—careful, considerate, the way two people who've come to know each other's rhythms move in sync. As Francesco rinsed plates, Leah dried them, the mundane becoming intimate.
By the time they returned to the couch, the night had grown deeper, and the fire had burned down to glowing embers. They sat close again, shoulders touching. Outside, the wind chattered against the windows; inside, the warmth felt like its own world.
Francesco retrieved his phone again, scrolling through Instagram one last time. A cascade of hearts and comments, laughter and love, and one notification that made him grin:
Message from Bellerín: "That mousse?! Mate, teach me for my next birthday 🍰"
He looked up, eyes meeting Leah's. "You know, we could do mousse classes."
She laughed, tossing a cushion at him. "Only if it's private—for two."
He caught the cushion with a smile. "Deal. But I'm calling it Chef and Coach night."
She rested her head on his shoulder. "I'd like that."
They watched the embers dim, concurrent with the slow ebb of the evening. It wasn't a night of flash or fanfare—it was something quieter, deeper: recognition and reward after challenge, love and celebration after triumph. The photo story and welter of comments might flicker out tomorrow, but this—this dinner, this comfort, this mutual glow—would settle into them like a new foundation under their life together.
The tea cups were put away; the kitchen was quiet again. Outside, the chill sharpened. Inside, their warmth held fast.
Leah closed her eyes. "Thank you."
He pressed a kiss to her hair. "Thank you for inviting me in… and letting me spoil you."
They stayed like that for a long time. One heartbeat. Two. No pressure, no rush—just shared quiet and the glow of promises yet to come.
The night ended on that perfect note: two people, their homes and passions entwined, drifting off not from fireworks or trophies, but from simple love in a cozy kitchen. And as the final embers died, they knew tomorrow would bring a new dawn, new matches, new moments. But tonight had done its magic—and they'd remember it long after any story had faded.
________________________________________________
Name : Francesco Lee
Age : 17 (2015)
Birthplace : London, England
Football Club : Arsenal First Team
Championship History : 2014/2015 Premier League, 2014/2015 FA Cup, and 2015/2016 Community Shield
Season 15/16 stats:
Arsenal:
Match Played: 28
Goal: 40
Assist: 6
MOTM: 4
POTM: 1
England:
Match Played: 2
Goal: 4
Assist: 0
Season 14/15 stats:
Match Played: 35
Goal: 45
Assist: 12
MOTM: 9